
COLOR 



BEAREI^ 

OTHER POEMS 



1DEC 9 1917 
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By 'IVanster 

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SUSAN DALE BECKMTH 



THE COLOR BEARER 

AND OTHER POEMS 



AA^-:. SUSAN (DALE' BECKWITH 



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1916 

THE BEITEL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

WICHITA. KANSAS 



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Copyright, iqi6, by 

Mrs. Florence Flower Beitel 

Wichita, Kansas 



M'CORMICK- ARMSTRONG PRESS, WICHITA. 



To 

Mrs. Florence Flower Beitel 

this collection of poems is 

affectionately dedicated 

by the author 



CONTENTS 

A Day Dream 60 

A Legend of the Arkansas i q 

April 7^) 

A Psalm of Failure 88 

At Set of Sun 28 

Columbia 51 

Courage 80 

Death's Triumph 62 

Dewey 36 

Dolly and I 71 

Dreaming 14 

Duty q 

Extracts from "Philip's Quest" yy 

Faith 81 

Farewell 32 

Hang Up the Children's Stockings 82 

Hope 80 

Indian Summer 17 

In Memoriam 38 

In the Everlasting Arms, To-night yq 

I Would Not Care for Heaven 76 

Kansas 16 

Labor 8 

Let the Bells Toll 37 

Life's River 84 

Lincoln 40 



Five THE COLOR BEARER 

Love 59 

Love's Triumph 58 

My Child q 

My Little Boy that Died 65 

My Mother 11 

Night . 8q 

Nobody Cares But Mother 12 

Ode to the Loyal Dead 35 

Resurrection 68 

Rest, Soldier, Rest 34 

Sing as the Birds Sing ^$ 

Stillborn 62 

The American Flag 45 

The Angel "Work" 7 

The Color Bearer 41 

The Death Ride 6g 

The Fairy's Slippers 66 

The Kildeer's Song 68 

The Lawyer and the Miller 26 

Themis 86 

The Oak and the Ivy iq 

The Passing of Hope 58 

The Siren of the Staked Plains 72 

The Spectral Fleet 56 

They Also Serve 74 

To the Mocking Bird 63 

To the Sunflower 17 

To the Unknown Dead 44 

Victor 60 

When I Am Gone 10 

Why Do Bells Ring^ 81 



THE ' COLOR' BEARER 



'THE ANGEL WORK" 

I was musing one eve o'er life's failures, 

And my soul was vext with the dread 
Of the long years stretching before me, 

A vista, whose perspective led 
To the same old follies, and fashions 

With which my days had been rife — 
The same endless sighing for glory. 

The same endless jarring and strife. 

And I said, "O Life, Lm aweary. 

You have cheated my soul of its due; 
Oh ! where are the visions of youth time — 

The dreams which never come true? 
You have given me nothing but longings 

And regret, for the things I have done; 
I am sated with thy transient pleasure. 

With everything under the sun." 

Then a being all shining and glorious, 
With a halo of light round her head, 

In her hand a scepter of power 
Suddenly stood by my bed. 



Eight THE COLOR BEARER 

"Why dost thou lie idly repining?" 

Said this being so gloriously fair, 
"See the wan, white faces of sorrow 

Imprinted with hopeless despair. 

"All around you is want and suffering, 

Hearts breaking with grief for the dead, 
Wives mourning desertion of husbands. 

And children crying for bread. 
Souls, which were once like the snowdrift, 

Or the white-robed angels above, 
Yeilding themselves to the tempter. 

Going down for a word of love. 

"No longer at ease lie musing 

And dreaming thy idle dreams: 
There's a golden harvest awaiting 

The being that is, not seems." 
Then I said to this being beauteous, 

"Pray, tell me thy earthly name, 
Thy station, and whither thou goest. 

For thou art unknown to fame." 

"My station is lowly, and humble; 

No duty in life I shirk; 
My home is the wide world over, — 
Men call me "The Angel Work." 

LABOR 

God with His own hands the world did make, 
Thus hallowing labor for His children's sake. 



THE COLOR BEARER Nine 

DUTY 

Shun Duty, and her burdens bear; 
Embrace her, free thyself from care. 

MY CHILD! 

My child ! When first mine eyes 
Beheld thy face with tender beauty crowned, 
I felt the olden days of grief go round 

With sudden, glad surprise. 

And when thy baby hand 
First strayed around my brow in winsome glee. 
My being blossomed into life, so free 

I felt the earth grow grand. 

After long years had flown 
And brought rich blossomings of life to thee, 
And only days of pain, and grief, to me, — 

Till then I had not known 

How much thou wert to me, 
Who gave thy young glad life, to cheer the days 
Shut off from earthly hope. Then Heaven's rays 

Thou bid'st mine eyes to see. 

Thus, leaning on thy heart 
Which I have found so true, I journey on. 
Content, though every hope be gone. 

If we no more shall part 

On earth. And when at last 
The doors of Heaven to us shall open wide, 
I know e'en though we go not, side by side, 

We'll meet when Time be past. 



Ten THE COLOR BEARER 

WHEN I AM GONE 

When I am gone, will no one come to strew 

The flowers of June above my lonely tomb, 
And bid once more a loVing fond adieu, 

To cheer me in my prison's awful gloom? 
Oh! will there be no heart to grieve for me? 

No hearthstone seem less bright because no more 
My presence round it hovers ? Will there not be 

One eye to watch, if through the open door 
A form will come, which makes the day more glad ? 

Or when around the altar, dim, and lone 
The household gathers as the day grows sad 

Will no one list, the dear familiar tone, 
And whisper o'er my name while teardrops start ? 

Could I but feel my "passing on" would be 
A light to guide along Life's busy mart. 

Oh! then 'twere well, or so it seems to me. 
That I thus early should be called to go. 

And leave to stronger hearts the battles here. 
With all life's pomp and heraldry, and so 

My shriven slumber would be sweet, no fear 
Encompass me, and waiting dreamlessly 

The higher summons, 

(Unfinished) 



Note. — Owing to failing health this poem was never completed. 

— Mrs. Beitel. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eleven 

MY MOTHER* 

"When first mine eyes beheld thy face" 

(With brow serene and fair, 

Nut brown locks of wavy hair 
Thy forehead crowned, with perfect grace; 
Brilliant gray eyes, which tender glanced. 

And spoke of depths profound, 

Kind features, fair and round, 
With overwhelming love enhanced.) 
I know my Baby Being thrilled 

In true response to thee. 

Who o'er my form, so wee. 
The watch of "Guard'an Angel" filled. 

Thy hand, so soft and shapely, pressed, 

In later years of life 

When battling in the strife, 
My aching brow, with pain distressed. 
Thy lips, so true, and of such worth 

No harsh or cruel word, 

In rebuke, was ever heard 
To speak. Thy soul — of noble birth. 
Since thou art gone, thy loving smile 

That made the day so bright 

With cheer, to do the right. 
No more my sorrows doth beguile. 

No more thy dear, familiar voice 

With accents soft and mild 
Dost soothe, as when a child 
My suff" rings. Make my heart rejoice. 



Twelve THE COLOR BEARER 

When weeping o'er thy lonely tomb, 

In anguish wild, to see 

The form so dear to me 
Imprisoned in that narrow room, 
A voice came floating down. So grand! 

"Foolish Girl! Weep not here; 

I'm not in that dark bier — 
I'm in Heaven. Can't you understand?" 

From Heaven's home thou hast spoken 
So truly to my soul ; 
Such hope ! My being whole 
Rejoices. Life's Cord is not broken. 
Yes, Christ is Lord of Life and King. 
"We'll meet, when Time be past." 
(For Love will always last). 
Together, His matchless glory sing. 

— Mrs. Florence Flower Beitel. 
*The above poem was written in answer to poems "My Child," 
and "When I Am Gone." 

NOBODY CARES BUT MOTHER 

(A Song) 

1. When but a barefoot boy at play 

Among the tangled heather. 
And life was bright without a ray 

Of dark and stormy weather, 
Then every one was kind to me, 

And sought to help along; 
When troubles came, I could not flee — 

They sang another song. 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirteen 

CHORUS 

For nobody cares but Mother, 

How a fellow gets along 
In life; there is no other, 

Whose love's so true and strong. 
And well, or ill, or rich, or poor, 

She's always your best friend. 
Her love and care, where'er you be, 

Will last 'til life shall end. 

2. 'Twas just the same as Time flew by, 

Fair weather friends were jolly. 
And girls would bow, and blush and sigh, 

And cheer me on in folly. 
While money lasted, life was gay; 

This earth was Heaven to me; 
But wealth has wings, 'twill fly away, 

And then you'll surely see. 

CHORUS 

That nobody cares but Mother, 

If a fellow's wealth be gone; 
In life there is no other. 

Whose love's so true, and strong. 
And rich or poor, or well, or ill. 

She's always your best friend. 
Her love and care, where'er you be. 

Will last 'til life shall end. 

3. And when disgrace had come to me. 

And I was forced to roam 
A wand'rer o'er the face of earth 
Forever from my home; 



Fourteen THE COLOR BEARER 

My wife and children turned away, 

And no where could I see 
A helping hand, through all the way, 

Til Mother came to me. 



For nobody cares but Mother, 

If a fellow's life goes wrong; 
I'm sure there is no other. 

Whose love's so true, and strong. 
And though his tired heart may ache 

With grief he cannot smother, 
No one will care e'en though it break,- 

No one will care but Mother. 



DREAMING 

I am dreaming to-night by the firelog's glow, 
Of the beautiful time of the Long Ago, 
When the days were tuned to a magical bliss 
That was hushed, and soft, as a mother's kiss. 
The embers 'are fanned by some witching fay. 
As the day with its cares glides swift away; 
The shadows gather in corners round, 
Which seem to echo the lightest sound. 

And I float and float, in a mystical dream. 
In a fairy boat, on a fairy stream 
To the far away isle, which my fancy sees 
With vision clear, in the purple seas. 



THE COLOR BEARER Fifteen 

Tis there that I with my loved ones meet, — 
And I list and list for the pattering feet 
Of the sister who died, and her laughing eyes 
Come back to-night, with a sweet surprise. 

But I peer through the mist, for another face — 

Dimpled, and sweet, in its maiden grace. 

And I see again, by the garden wall. 

The maiden sweet and a soldier tall. 

As they bid farewell through their blinding tears. 

To meet never again, through the coming years — 

The soldier came from the wars at last. 

But the earthly life of the maid was past. 

For all that was mortal was laid away 
'Neath the sod, and the dew, 'til the judgment day, 
While the soldier roams through the world alone. 
To wife, and children, and home unknown. 
I look again ; and the mists unfold 
And a face more fair than earth could hold 
Shines through the rift, and I see once more 
My mother's face, as in days of yore. 

I close my eyes, and I feel again 
Her. fingers soft on my brow of pain; 
And a sweet content wraps my being 'round. 
While my soul is hushed to each earthly sound. 
So I sit and muse by the firelog's glow. 
While the lengthening shadows come and go; 
And I wait the boatman to row me o'er 
To the purple isle, with its golden shore. 



Sixteen THE COLOR BEARER 

KANSAS 

Fair land of promise! unto thee we raise 
With grateful hearts, our tuneful notes of praise 
From sea to sea, from far off Northern shore — 
Where oft is heard the storm king's sullen roar ; 
To Southern gulf, whose slumbrous waves lie still, 
Beneath a tropic sun, thy fame is sung, until 
The weary and oppressed, from Orient come 
To find with thee the longed-for promised home. 

Like fabled Phoenix, who of old, arose 

From out his ashes, scorning many foes, 

And bravely stood, his proud form towering higher, 

Which brighter glowed for its baptism of fire. 

So thou, fair State, from rapine, fire, and sword, 

Internal wars, and enemies, a horde 

Came forth, with brilliancy of bloom to shine. 

Brighter than did of old, Golconda's mine. 

From scourge of drought, that kissed the streamlets dry, 

Which stagnant lay, beneath a burning sky, — 

From hoardes of locusts, which with ravenous maw 

O'erspread the land, from Medicine to Kaw, 

And stript'd bare, as once in Pharaoh's reign. 

Like breath of fire, they blasted Egypt's plain. 

Now, peace and plenty, after years of strife, 

Of heart sick longings for the olden life, 

Have settled down. The solemn Sabbath bell 

Resounds, where once was heard the dreaded yell 

Of wily savage, as he skulked away. 

From deeds of vengeance dire, at break of day. 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventeen 

And where of old, the coyote's mournful cry 
Was heard, resting 'neath tender arching sky, 
Great schools of learning point to Heaven's dome. 
Proclaiming thee, the land of Freedom's home. 
The bursting bins, the cattle on the hills. 
As far as eye can reach, the landscape fills ; 
While vines hang low, with weight of purple store. 
Till man exclaims, what can I ask for more, 
Of all the States, thou art the fairest gem — 
Bright star, upon the Nation's diadem. 

TO THE SUNFLOWER 

Bright queen of Kansas, golden haired beauty. 
Turning thy face to the warm God of Day, 

Emblem of purity, sweetness, and duty, 
Type of the faithful, ever I pray. 

Shine in thy splendor, thy yellow hued splendor, 
Decking the praries with vision so fair, 

That up from our hearts well sentiments tender, 
Springing to life as free as the air. 

Come to us, golden queen, labor to brighten, 
Teaching thy lesson of faithfulness true — 

Come with thy nodding crown, sorrow to lighten, — 
May we e'er prove as constant as you. 

INDIAN SUMMER 

The days grow short ; the season wanes ; 

The glowing sun, whose bright rays kissed 
With loving warmth the flowery plains. 

Seems shadowed in a vapory mist. 



Eighteen THE COLOR BEARER 

The wind, in deeper, sadder tone. 
Is sighing through the rustling trees, 

Whose boughs a melancholy moan 
Are whispering to the dying leaves. 

All nature takes a graver hue. 

The woods a deeper shadow cast; 
And o'er the skies, cerulean blue, 

The scurrying clouds fly quickly past. 

The season wanes, and nature seems 

As if composed to quiet sleep; 
No more the grove with music teems. 

The birds a charmed stillness keep. 

On earth's brown bosom now is spread 

A carpet soft, of autumn leaves, 
Whose green is dyed a golden red, 

And barer grow the maple trees. 

The days grow short, the season wanes; 

The grass is sere o'er hill and lea; 
No water in the pond remains. 

The stream runs slower to the sea. 

The long spun cobwebs idly float 
In feathery festoons through the air, 

And all the time a mournful note 

Seems sobbing, throbbing, everywhere. 

The brilliant Summer days have flown. 
Of singing birds and nodding flowers. 

Yet Autumn brings a joy unknown 
In Summer's gayest halcyon hours. 



THE COLOR BEARER Nineteen 

So in the autumn time of life 

The Indian Summer days will come; 

Long days with meditation rife, 

And we shall sing glad Harvest Home. 

A LEGEND OF THE ARKANSAS 

Moons ago, long leagues to northward, 

Where the white-capped mountains rise 
With their grandly towering summits. 

Mutely pointing to the skies; 
And the turgid Arkansas 

Winds its sinuous length along 
Where the blackbird and the robins 

Fill the scanty woods with song; 
And the red man of the Northland 

Lives his life so wild and free, 
Dwelt a chieftain, brave Ormego, 

And his daughter, Oconee. 
Oconee, the dearest maiden 

Of the sandy Western plains; 

Oconee, the sweetest singer. 

From the birds her song she gains. 
Tall and slender is her figure, 

With the willow's supple grace. 
And no flower can compare 

With the beauty of her face. 
On her dusky cheeks the crimson, 

The wild sand plum's tints outvies, 
And the panther to his dungeon 

Shrinks before her haunting eyes. 



Tivejity THE COLOR BEARER 

Many lovers hath the maiden, 

Lovers who are true and brave; 
They have loved her from her childhood, 

And would die her life to save. 
But she turns away in loathing 

From each fierce war-painted face, 
Giving her love unto another — 

Captive from the pale faced race. 
When her father, Chief Ormego, 

Hears the tales the young braves tell. 
Fierce and wild within his bosom 

All his angry passons swell. 

And the tribe is called in council 

To decide the captive's fate; 
Nothing short of death, it must be. 

For each heart is filled with hate. 
When the sentence, hears the maiden, 

Flashes forth her lustrous eyes, 
And she swears by the "Great Spirit" 

That her lover shall not die. 



Midnight's weird and dusky shadows 

Creep across the praries green, 
Lengthening out the stunted elm tree. 

When an Indian girl is seen 
Glide along with stealthy foot falls. 

Creep into the wigwam, where, 
Bound with thongs of birch and willow, 

Lies her lover in despair; 



THE COLOR BEARER Twenty-one 

Quick, a dagger from her bosom 

Draws the young maid Oconee; 
Cuts the thongs from wrist and ankles, 

Sets her captive lover free. 

Light she motions, and he follows 

Winding 'mong the sleeping braves — 
Little cares she for the morrow 

If her lover's life she saves. 
Far outside the camp she leads him, 

Listening oft with sharpened ear, 
And at every snapping twiglet 

Beats her heart aloud with fear. 
To his breast the maid he presses, 

Whispers words of seeming truth. 
Mounts upon her trusty pony, 

Rides with all the strength of youth. 



In his covert, by the moonlight, 

Oconee a warrior spies; 
Sees him raise his deadly rifle. 

Sees the hatred in his eyes; 
And he points it at her lover — 

Well she knows his savage name, 
Well she knows his trusty rifle. 

Well she knows his deadly aim. 
Quick as thought her feathered arrow. 

Whistles through the midnight air; 
And the young brave settles downward 

With a yell of wild despair. 



Twenty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

Book Second 

Through the forest roamed the maiden, 

Roamed she all the day alone, 
Listened to the crickets piping, 

Hunting for the squirrel's home; 
Listening to each falling leaflet. 

To the water's dreary hum. 
Searching for the bluebirds nestling. 

Whistling for the hare to come; 
Seeking out the modest violet 

To adorn her raven hair. 
Waiting for her absent lover 

Who has sworn to meet her there. 

Meet, and take her leagues to Southward 

On the treacherous Arkansas, 
In their little bark of birchen. 

To his home in Wichita. 
Many moons she watched and waited. 

Listening to each dipping oar. 
But her palefaced lover came not 

To the forest evermore. 
So she launched her bark of birchen 

With her own brown, supple hand; 
Plied the oars unto the Southward, 

To her lover's fairy land. 

Book Third 

Long days the little boat slept on 
The river's bosom broad and deep; 

Lightly rocked by every passing wave 
As to the sea it seemed to creep. 



THE COLOR BEARER Twenty-three 

Again, with current swift and strong, 

It swept, a lightly tossing shell, 
By town and city on its way 

Swift winged as by a fairy's spell. 
'Neath burning suns of summer late. 

And scorching winds from Southern sands, 
By lowly banks of stunted trees 

It sailed along through unknown lands. 

And later still, when frosts were white 

And yellow grew the poplar leaves. 
When voice of robin ceased to float 

Around her on the autumn breeze. 
When in the vale of goldenrod. 

His gay plume nodding to and fro, 
Is kissed by breath of chilly wind 

And droops, with stately head bent low ; 
And crisp, and sear the waving grass 

Is grown, the whitening frost to please, 

A city, with its towers built high, 

The dusky Indian maiden sees. 
With raptured eye she gazes out 

O'er wooded vale and meadow green. 
Where lowing kine and neighing steed 

Around on every hand are seen; 
Where orchards with their ripened fruit 

Blush in the mellow Autumn sun. 
And vines bend low with purple freight — 

She feels her toilsome journey's done. 



Twenty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

How beats her heart with Love's fond hopes, 

As o'er the past her fancy plays, — 
Light poised within her bark she stands 

Enraptured o'er the scene to gaze. 
She hears the river's sleepy hum, 

She hears the city's noisy jar. 
She sees its stately towers rise, 

And knows her lover's home's not far. 

Her boat is fast, and lightly steps 

The maiden through the city's streets • 
"Oh! have you seen my lover true?" 

She asks of every one she meets. 
They wildly stare, and rapidly, 

With hurrying feet, each pass her by. 
"Oh! have you seen my lover true?" 

Is o'er, and o'er her plaintive cry, 
'Til one, attired in priestly robe. 

Arrests his steps awhile to gaze 
On that sad face, whose lustrous eyes 

Seemed borrowed from the sun's bright rays. 

"Your lover, child, I pray you tell 

The name of him, you hold so dear?" 
She drawing from her bosom brown 
A paper, said, "His name is here." 
He read it o'er, and o'er again, 
And paler grew his kindly face, 
"Your lover with his palefaced wife 
Is living there in yonder place." 



THE COLOR BEARER Twenty-five 

He pointed to a costly pile 

Of architecture rich and grand, 
And long the Indian maid is seen 

With horror stricken face to stand. 

But soon the wild blood through her veins 

Is throbbing with its maddening thrill — 
She turns with fiercely burning eyes, 

And lightly bounds, nor stops until 
Her boat is moored. Far out she rows, 

The evening shadows come apace, — 
A scream floats out, and never more 

Is seen the dusky maiden's face. 



But 'tis said an Indian maiden 

On each Autumn night is seen, 
With her flowing raven tresses, 

O'er her birchen bark to lean. 
Draw a dagger from her bosom. 

Thrust it in her faithful heart. 
Then with wildly screaming accents 

In the surging waters dart. 
And the little boat turned downward, 

Slowly floats toward the sea, 
And the palefaced lover never 

Will the Indian maiden see. 



Twenty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

THE LAWYER AND THE MILLER 

A lawyer and a miller stood at the gates of Hell, 
Disputing for the precedence, for each one knew quite well 
If the passport was their conduct along their earthly road. 
He should be the first to enter the Plutonian abode. 
Both were stubborn and their pride was aroused to the highest 

pitch, 
And the lesser devils guarding the inner door, which 
Led to the highest seat beside their Father's throne, 
Were obliged to turn away with a sad and bitter moan; 
For they felt their power'd be over when the guests entered in. 
But they went to their Father and told him what had been 
Transpiring at the outer gate ever since early morn. 
And a new and sweet delight in the devil's breast was born. 

He hastened to the entrance to judge between the two, 
Inward hoping all the while he might hear something new. 
**The lawyer being greatest among the sons of earth 
May first recount unto my ears the deed of greatest worth 
Entitling him to precedence within the gates of Sheol. 
The miller next review his life as he presses toward the goal." 

The lawyer then began in loud, triumphant tones: 
"I listened without flinching to an orphan's prayerful moans 
As I settled up a great estate, and when the thing was done, 
Every cent was in my pocket and every mother's son 
Of the other lawyers in the case were compelled to leave 

the town; 
But my name was covered over with glory and renown." 
"And the orphan?" asked the devil, with a spat upon the 
back. 



THE COLOR BEARER Twenty-seven 

"Oh, she committed suicide and was carted in a hack 
To a corner in the potter's field." "Well done, my beloved 

friend, 
'Tis a pity for our business your life on earth should end." 

The miller looked despondent as he listened to the tale, 
But proceeded with his story, though his face was sad and 

pale: 
"The lawyer's story, truly, is wonderful to hear, 
And mine will seem quite tame when I tell it you, I fear. 
One day a sickly widow with her children came to me 
With a little sack of corn, and she wished, she said, to see 
If I would grind into meal, and I told her that I would 
On the morrow without fail if 'twere possible I could. 
The morrow came, and with it the woman, the poor old soul, 
Sent for the grist, but don't you see? It had taken all 

for toll." 

"Very good, my faithful friend," said the devil with glad tone, 
"But the lawyer's still ahead, very frankly I must own." 
"Something else I'd like to mention e'er I take a seat that's 

back. 
And that is this : I quite forgot to send her back the sack." 
The doors flew open and there came a gust of warmish 

weather. 
And the lawyer and the miller, they both went in together. 



Twenty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

AT SET OF SUN 

I boasted aloud in the morning 

Of the things which I would do 
To make the world grow better, 

To make weak hearts more true. 
I would draw my trusty saber 

To break the chains of Might ! 
And scatter abroad my silver 

As the stars begem the night. 
Great deeds should my hands be doing 

That would shine on the scrolls of fame, 
And the hearts of a million people 

Would glow at the sound of my name. 

At noontide I was working 

And dreaming still of fame, 
So I founded lofty asylums 

And named them with my name; 
I sent abroad to the heathen 

The "Wonderful Words of Life." 
And wherever life's battles were hottest 

I was foremost in the strife. 

The evening found me weeping 

Aloud in my grief and pain. 
While the tears of remorse and sorrow 

Ran down my cheeks like rain. 
Great deeds had my hands been doing — 

Great deeds 'til set set of sun, 
And missed on each long day's journey 

The things that I should have done. 



THE COLOR BEARER Twenty-nine 

I had refused to the starving orphan 

The mite for his daily bread, 
And reared with my glittering silver 

Lofty hospitals instead; 
I had seen weak souls go downward 

With a wail of wild despair, 
But I had no time to succor 

From the tempter in his lair. 

I had seen my own home nestlings 

Grow faint for a loving word, 
And made a thousand speeches 

Which the multitudes had heard. 
So I cried aloud in my sorrow, 

At the setting of the sun, 
As they passed in review before me — 

The things that I should have done. 



THE OAK AND THE IVY 

An Allegory 

Within a forest, old and grand, 
Beside the river's noisy flow, 

A stately oak, for ages stood 

And watched its waters come and go. 

Alone it stood, as if in pride, 

And raised aloft its towering head. 

Its leafy branches, far and wide. 
From noonday heat, a shelter shed. 



Thirty THE COLOR BEARER 

So strong, it seemed, no passing storm 
Could move it from its proper place. 

Nor winter cold, nor summer warm 
Could mar the beauty of its face. 

The robin nested in its arms 

And hatched to life her fluttering brood, 

Securely kept from earth's alarms. 

She brought her young their daily food. 

And so the ages rolled around, 

Yet still it stood alone in pride ; 
'Til one bright day, upon the ground 

A seed was dropped, quite near its side. 

A tiny seed the robin brought 

To feed her young one summer's day; 

But by a gust of wind 'twas caught 
And there upon the turf it lay. 

Until a shower from Heaven came down, 

And washed it in a crevice small, 
When lo ! it burst its narrow bounds, — 

The seed had grown an ivy tall. 

"A thing of beauty," cried the oak 

"With colors bright, but tendrils weak," 
And watched it throw its arms about 
As if a shelter it would seek. 

"Pray lean on me," he boasting cried 
"See how I tower unto the skies; 
My strength is equal for us both, 
To stand alone would not be wise." 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirty-one 

"Nay, nay! not so," the vine replied 
In dulcet accents low, and soft; 
*' Twere better I should stand alone 
Than thus on others climb aloft. 

"This turf a gentle resting place 

Will be for me when storms arise; 
Much safer too, I feel, 'twill be 

Than though I climbed unto the skies. 

"For should you fall, as fall you may. 

Your strength my weakness would subdue; 
My tendrils I could not untwine 

And should be ruined then with you." 

"Frail doubting vine, thou wert not formed, 

To breast the storms of life alone; 
Thy clinging tendrils reach about 

And with each passing breeze make moan. 

"Oh, lean on me, my heart is strong. 
My base is founded on a rock; 
rU bear thee on my bosom broad. 
Thou shalt not feel earth's lightest shock." 

So, reassured, the ivy clung. 

With loving arms the oak around. 

Through all its spreading branches wide 

In trust, her silken tendrils wound. 
* * * * 

Thus years crept on, until one day 
A storm burst forth, with fury curled, 

And from their base, the mighty rocks 
Adown the river's banks were hurled. 



Thirty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

"Ah, ha!" the oak laughed loud in glee, 

"No storm can wreck my rock- bound base. 

Tis well you thought to cling to me. 
No vine alone this storm could face." 

A thunderbolt from Heaven came down 
Like a fiery serpent through the air; 

The oak was cleft in twain, and laid 
A ghastly blackened ruin there. 

An empty shell the oak had stood 

For ages towering to the skies; 
Its hollow heart the vine had hid 

With loving arms, from prying eyes. 

And there within the mire and clay, 

The beauteous vine still clasped the oak; 

But life forever now was o'er, — 

She drooped her head, her heart was broke. 



FAREWELL 

Farewell, you said you would not say good-bye. 
Good-bye was sad, its meaning infinite, 
And then you clasped my tired, trembling hands, 
And, with a smile, which unto others meant 
Much, or little, as they could read aright 
The light within the depths of your brown eyes 
You said once more, farewell, " Til we again 
Some day with true and earnest hearts shall meet." 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirty-three 

I looked aghast upon the iron steed 

Whose burning eye, and nostrils breathing fire 

Went ploughing o'er the shadowy flower-decked plain. 

And wondered when again your loving hands 

Would press in tenderness my own weak palm. 

Farewell, but oh, weak soul, can it be well 

When loving hearts, and true, are sundered far 

By Fate? That monster grim which swallows up 

The faith, the hopes, the fond desires of youth; 

A leaden weight seemed pressing down my heart; 

The heart, erstwhile so bright with sunlight's glow, 

Now darkness o'er. The birds sweet carols vexed, 

Since you were gone, all Nature's face seemed changed. 

But that was years agone. Since then the grass 
Has grown with vivid green above your grave. 
Farewell was sure, a long, a last farewell. 
Good-bye was never said, your face no more 
With all its manly grace, and tenderness. 
My eyes beheld. No more your firm hand clasped 
My faltering one. But it is better thus — 
Death is the friend, which buries from our sight 
Our loved 'ere they have grown cold and unkind. 
For now I look with trusting eyes of Faith 
Beyond the narrow confines of the world 
To where I shall behold thy loving face 
And never more will hear the sad farewell. 



Thirty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

REST, SOLDIER, REST! 

(Respectfully Dedicated to Garfield Post G. A. R., Wichita, Kansas) 

Rest, soldier, rest! No more on tented field 
Wilt thou with sturdy arm thy weapon wield. 
No more thy gaily decked and valiant steed. 
With nostrils flaming wide, the onslaught lead. 
Nor where the ranks are falling, wilt thou ride 
With maddening rush, to stem the faltering tide; 
No more the bugle's shrill and piercing note 
Across thy morning dreams of home shall float 
To rouse thee with the horrors of red war, 
Its ghastly visions flaming from afar. 

Sleep, comrade, sleep ! A nation's love is thine, 
And so with flowers thy sepulchre we twine. 
But suns shall set and silvery moons shall rise, 
And sail triumphant through the stormy skies, 
While thou shall slumber deep in silence here. 
Where evening's gentle dew and falling tear 
Keep green thy grave. And sires shall tell to son 
Around the hearthstone when the day is done, 
The tale of valorous deeds performed by thee, 
Whose blood keeps green the tree of liberty. 

Rest, soldier, rest ! Thy work on earth is done, 
But long as rivers to the ocean run, 
Long as the trees their garbs of green shall wave. 
Or flowers spring up with which to deck thy grave, 
Shall we with grateful hearts for service done, 
Assemble on this day, and for a people won, 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirty-fit 

A nation saved, give thanks; and, comrades dear, 
As oft as comes the springtime of the year 
Shall we with love bow low in reverence deep, 
Where willows green watch o'er thy sleep. 

Sleep, comrade, sleep! And peace be unto thee. 
Long as the starry flag floats o'er the free 
Thy name shall aye be sung in storied song. 
And be the cry to conquer wrong, — 

Rest, soldier, rest! 

Sleep, comrade, sleep! 



ODE TO THE LOYAL DEAD 

The years in solemn march go round 

With measured step, and slow. 
They onward sweep, their course profound, 

A ceaseless ebb and flow. 
The stately moon in silence rides 

O'er earth and stormy brine; 
And over all, whate'er betides, 

The trackless stars still shine. 

But we, each year, with grateful hearts 

And love's undying flame. 
Will leave the city's noisy marts 

To ,«^eek, in Freedom's name, 
This hallowed place, where slumber low, 

'Neath willow's mournful sigh, 
That faithful band, who forth did go 

For land and homes to die. 



Thirty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

And o'er each grave with kindly hand 

Sweet flowers we fondly strew, 
In memory of that gallant band 

Which sleeps beneath the dew. 
But other years shall come and go, 

And other hands than ours 
While Time's unending cycles flow 

Shall robe these graves with flowers. 

And long as loyal hearts shall beat, 

Long as the old flag waves, 
Shall freemen come with willing feet 

To deck these hero's graves. 



DEWEY 

As eagles skim the heights to weaker birds unknown, 

And build their nests, on cliff or towering crag and peak, 
So he, whose honored name with brilliant lustre shone, 

Uprose above the plains which lesser mortals seek. 
And with a courage dauntless, ready mind to plan, 
Will strong to execute, and for his fellow man 
A heart for freedom burning, struck the fatal blow 
Which burst a peoples' fetters, laid a tyrant low; 
And in a far-off Orient Isle, in Southern sea. 
Planted, in blood, the seed of human liberty. 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirty-seven 

LET THE BELLS TOLL 

To the Memory of Gen. Sheridan 

Let the bells toll, and the nation weep, 

A hero has gone to his last long sleep. 

Let the muffled drum, and the solemn tread 

Disturb not the rest of the noble dead. 

He silently sleeps, his arms aground. 

And war's fierce rattle, nor bugle sound 

Will reach him more, with their horrors dread. 

For naught can disturb the sleep of the dead. 

For him the glory of life is done; 
For him the last battle on earth is won. 
No more to the onslaught he'll bravely ride 
On his neighing steed, with its nostrils wide, 
With its eyes of fire, and reeking sides, 
As the battle's defeat he bravely tides. 
No more he'll shout to his tired men, 
"Face about! we are going back again!" 

But the life that is lived in honor here 

Will shine more bright in another sphere; 

And the light that it leaves in the hearts of men, 

Will grow and bud and blossom again, 

Till a nation of men will rise to be 

Fit receptacle for the liberty 

So dearly bought, and so bravely won 

By those whose earth work forever is done. 

A man, and a soldier has passed away 
In the glow and strength of his manhood's day ; 
Then let the bells toll and the nation weep, 
A hero has gone to his last long sleep. 



Thirty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

IN MEMORIAM 

To the Memory of Gen. Logan 

A victor's dead! Let nations weep 
While true, and loyal hearts shall beat, 

Let anthems roll 

While lips extol 
And poets sing, in song and story, 
That name which points us on to glory. 

A victor's dead ! Yet lives he yet 
In loving hearts, which ne'er forget 

The triumphs won. 

The service done, 
Where bitter foes were forced to yield 
In bloody rout, on tented field. 

And where the flag of stars shall float. 
And where is heard the bugle note, 

Or clash of arms 

Or drums alarums 
Thy name, oh! Logan then shall be 
The battle cry of liberty. 

Thy life of love, and loyalty. 
Shines out amidst a blackened sea 

Of base designs. 

And trait'rous crimes, 
With halo bright, and warmly glows 
Subduing hearts of bitterest foes. 



THE COLOR BEARER Thirty-nine 

On battle field, or Senate floor, 
Thou yieldest nothing less nor more 

Than duty should; 

But firmly stood 
A marble rock. With manly might 
Thy blows were ever for the right. 

We'll miss thy loving counsel here, 
Thy earnest, tender words of cheer. 

Thy presence bright 

Which cheered our sight, 
No more we'll view with earthly eyes 
While suns shall set, or moons shall rise. 

Thy work is o'er. Thy star hath set } 

On earth to rise no more, and yet 

When sinks the sun 

And worlds are done 
'Twill blaze with glorious light supernal 
On that blest shore, — ages eternal. 

Still our weak hearts will cry to God, 
We cannot bear the chastening rod — 

The weary way. 

No spark of day 
Illumes, no silver lining shines 
Behind the cloud our eye outlines. 



Forty THE COLOR BEARER 

Yet, while we mourn thy absence here 
And grope along in doubt and fear, 

Each burdened breast 

With care oppressed, 
Each saddened brow, with sorrow aching, 
Each bleeding heart, with suffering breaking, 

'Tis joy to know that thou art free 
Foi-ever from the pangs, which we 
Are suffering now ; 
And that thy brow, 
A glorious crown of life is wearing. 
And victor's palms thy hands are bearing. 



LINCOLN 

Immortal man! What heart so callous grown. 

But echoes with a thousand vibrant strings 

At thought of thee. Each loyal heart still clings, 

To memories sweet across the distance thrown. 

Time has not dulled the lustre of thy fame. 

But, polished with a brightness all its own, 

It shines puissant, wheresoe'er is known 

The sound of liberty. In Freedom's name, 

With thy strong arm which ruled the Ship of State 

Did'st burst the shackles; set a nation free; 

And bind together hearts grown mad with hate 

And drunken with the blood of anarchy. 

Now, o'er thy grave the winds sigh a surcease 

From earthly strife. Thy sword the "Sword of Peace. 



THE COLOR BEARER Forty-one 

THE COLOR BEARER 

"Dear Mother," thus the letter ran, "the sun is sinking fast; 
Strange thoughts my mind are thronging, for this night 

may be my last; 
From the distance comes the booming on the sultry evening 

air. 
Of the cannon's murderous belching, and the camp-fires 

over there. 
Where the enemy is lying, flicker with uncanny light. 

And each signal shooting heavenward, through the darkness 

of the night. 
Like some worn, and restless spirit, shaking off its robes 

of clay. 
Tells in language, all too plainly, that before the break of 

day, 
The battle will be raging, and many noble men 
Will go forth to fight for country, and ne'er come back again. 

"I would like this night to see you, and hear you say once 

more, 
'God bless my noble laddie,' as you kiss me at the door. 
But, Mother, should it be my fate to be numbered with the 

slain, 
With sightless eyes uplifted, to lie moldering on the plain, 
Let this thought comfort, Mother, as you humbly kiss the 

rod, 
Tis a grand and holy privilege to die for home and God." 



Forty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

The morning sun looked earthward, and a sullen, fiery glare. 
Where the fields were strewn with dying, and the trumpet's 

fateful blare 
Called forth to fiercer battle, and the hate of men ran high, 
As brother fought 'gainst brother, underneath the sullen 

sky. 
And that mother's noble laddie, with his brave form tower- 
ing high, 
Held aloft the starry banner, with resolve to do, or die. 

All day the battle rages, and the field is nearly won, 
As behind the western hill- tops, redly sinks the evening sun. 
The colors still float bravely, but the laddie's face is pale. 
And his heart is sick within him at the sound of leaden hail. 
"The field is ours," comes ringihg down the lines in glad 

acclaim. 
And he lifts the banner higher, as he breathes his mother's 

name. 

But, no ! the foe is rallying, reinforcements fresh and strong 
Push on with sudden vigor, and, with yells, the rebel throng 
Rush in with bayonets flashing, and the battle rages high 
Round that starry banner floating, underneath a Southern 

sky. 
"Can he save it?" "No! he's down, oh! thank God, he's up 

again!" 
With the colors bravely flying, to his comrades' glad refrain. 

Hard the enemy is pressing, close and closer still they come, 
With their bayonets loudly crashing, mingled with the 
saber's hum; 



THE COLOR BEARER Forty-three 

"Ping," the bullets whistle round him, and the banner's rent 
in twain, 
But the bugle shrilly whistles, "Rally round the flag again." 
Swift the boys in blue come flying, and they fall upon their 
foes, 
"Hurrah, hurrah!" keeps ringing, while the blood like water 
flows. 

"He's down again," Oh! heaven protect that youthful form 
From the saber's cruel slashing, from the murderous leaden 
storm. 
"Ah, ha!" the foe is yielding! the day at last is won; 

But what of him, that laddie, his mother's only son? 

On the field, so white and helpless, with the blood stains in 

his hair. 
Which clusters still in boyish grace around his forehead 

fair, 
He lies with eyes uplifted, in the solemn evening light. 
While his comrades bend above him, their faces worn and 

white. 

But the bugle's last shrill rally penetrates his stiffening ear. 
And he springs upon his feet, with heart unknown to fear. 
He grasps the old flag once again, in sudden boyish pride, 
And with a loud, "Huzza, huzza!" he flings it far, and wide; 
Then he sinks upon the hillside, as the foe beats swift 

retreat. 
And the starry flag, he loved so well, was his only winding 

sheet. 



Forty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

TO THE UNKNOWN DEAD 

Long lines of mounds are lying still, 

Beneath a Southern sun; 
By river's bank, on wooded hill, 

Where victory was won. 

The boys who bore the flag on high 

When blood like rivers flowed. 
For God and country, all their cry, 

As forth to death they rode, 

Bravely they fought, and bravely fell, 

A loyal band, and true. 
Nor shrank abashed at rebel yell, — 

The boys that wore the blue. 

Unmarked the place, by board or stone, 

To tell to passersby. 
Who sleeps in graves, with grass o'ergrown. 

Where willows mournful sigh. 

No! not unmarked, for angels eyes 

Drop tears of pity down, 
And under starry Southern skies 

They slumber sweetly on. 

The daisy blooms with sweeter grace 

Above their sleeping dust. 
And violets mark the resting place 

Earth holds in sacred trust. 

Then slumber on, ye unknown brave, 
And peaceful by thy sleep. 



THE COLOR BEARER Forty-five 

The giant pine will guard thy grave 
While stars their vigils keep. 

They fear no more the cannon loud, 

Or brazen trumpet's blare, 
Nor battle's smoke their forms enshroud, 

Nor frights artillery's glare. 

Yes! sweetly sleep, through storm, and sleet, 

Sunshine, or Winter's snow, 
While drums with muffled voices beat. 

Or bugles sadly blow. 

On other shores thy tents are spread. 

Thy arms for aye aground, 
Eternal peace o'er thee is spread. 

While glory wraps thee round. 



*THE AMERICAN FLAG 

All civilized countries honor and revere the flag of their 
own country, and even to the semi-civilized people, the 
flag under which they march to their barbarous warfare and 
which floats over them in their ruthless despoliation of their 
enemies has something of sacredness ; but in no other nation 
in the world is the flag of their country so revered, nor does 
the same relationship exist as in the United States. 

Not always has our emblem been the same as we now see 
decorating these walls, and floating from the flagstaffs of our 

*This oration was delivered by Mrs. Susan Dale Beckwith, June 
fourteenth, nineteen hundred and eleven, at Wichita, Kansas, before 
the Woman's Relief Corps and Grand Army Republic in joint assembly. 



Forty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

public buildings, for the first flag raised by Washington was 
at Cambridge on January second, seventeen hundred 
seventy-six, and it was then composed of thirteen stripes, 
as at present, of red, and white, with a blue canton, on 
which was emblazoned the crosses of St. George and St. 
Andrews as in the British flag. 

The first real American flag had its origin in the following 
Resolution, adopted by Congress June fourteenth, seventeen 
hundred seventy-seven: 

"Resolved, that the flag of the thirteen United States, 
be thirteen stripes, alternate red, and white; that the union 
be thirteen stars, white, in a blue field, representing a new 
constellation." 

So, in pursuance of this resolution, a committee was 
appointed, who accompanied by Washington sought out 
Mrs. Elizabeth Ross, more generally known as Betty Ross, 
who, with her nimble fingers, had the honor of making the 
first flag of the greatest nation in the world. 

With all their wisdom and fore-sight, it is not at all 
probable that either the Congress which conceived, or the 
woman who wrought out this conception, could by any 
possibility have dreamed of the vastness or glory of the 
country in the ages to come, over which this beautiful flag 
should wave. 

In seventeen hundred ninety-four, after the admission 
of Vermont and Kentucky, the stars and stripes were each 
increased to fifteen. But, beautiful as this flag was, it did 
not seem to be altogether satisfactory, for if stripes should 
be added at each admission of a new State, it can readily 
be seen the flag would soon become cumbersome, so in the 
year eighteen hundred eighteen, at the suggestion of Samuel 



THE COLOR BEARER Forty-seven 

C. Reid, the original thirteen stripes representing the original 
thirteen States were restored, and Congress voted to add a 
new star on the fourth day of July succeeding the admission 
of each new State, and thus we have our present flag in 
all its beauty, and with all its hallowed associations. 

Since the beginning of the world, dynasties have been 
born, flourished for a few years or centuries, and fallen away. 

Principalities have risen, some of them like Jonah's gourd, 
only to fade away in the great eternity of time, and be 
heard of no more by man, and thus down through all the 
decades of years, until now, when a new government arose, 
weak at first, of necessity, for a long war of twelve years had 
reduced the pioneers of this new land to bitter extremities, 
both physically, and financially. 

All the powers of the world were enraged because this 
new government was determined that not a few, but the 
whole people should rule. Have you ever thought what it 
must have been to those early Colonists, when they should 
realize that they were a colony no longer, but a free and 
independent nation with their own banner floating over 
them? 

But could such a government as this survive? That was 
the question. A new country rich in resources, to ba sure, 
but all undeveloped, its coffers empty, and no known means 
of flUing them. And war in itself leaves behind a trail so 
poisonous, that all who come in contact must feel its taint. 

Yet, notwithstanding all, there came forth from that 
struggle with the mother country, a nation of men made 
broader and deeper for the fiery furnace through which they 
had passed. 

The history of the struggles, the discouragements, the 



Forty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

triumphs, in the long years downward when men stood as 
made of granite, against the allurements of fame, the 
dazzling splendor of riches, the bribery of kingdom, is well 
known to you all. 

Then came the awful struggle of the Civil War. Surely 
no government could stand against itself. I have sometimes 
trembled with abject fear, when I have thought of what 
might have been the fate of our beloved country, had not 
God Himself raised up for us a man, simple and kind, who 
took into the inmost recesses of his bleeding heart the woes 
of his country. A man so strong that neither wealth nor 
power could bribe him, so pure that he was the wonder of 
the principalities of the old countries grown rotten with 
power. 

Oh! Lincoln, thine arm, the arm which bound together 
hearts grown mad with hate, and drunken with the blood of 
anarchy. Now o'er thy grave the winds sigh a surcease of 
earthly strife. Thy sword the sword of peace. 

From the first formation of the government to the present 
time, men, good and great, have given up happiness, wealth, 
power, even life itself that our country might live. Their 
footsteps have left a trail of blood all over the land that our 
country's flag might float over a nation at peace with all the 
world. 

Oh ! never more shall wars internal 
Wrench our heart-strings as of yore ; 

Never more our limpid streamlets. 
Agonized, weep tears of gore. 



THE COLOR BEARER Forty-nine 

There hangs our flag. Just a little three-colored piece 
of bunting, but what a happy conception was the choice of 
these three colors. 

The blue, representing God's broad, blue sky, symbolizing 
the liberty which shall yet be world wide. White, signifying 
the truth and purity of the principles on which the govern- 
ment is founded. Red, representing, some say, God's beauti- 
ful roses. Yes! but more, far more, does it typify the rich, 
red blood which was given so freely by our sires to establish 
this government, and friends, comrades, you know how 
freely — nay, gladly — has patriotic blood been spilled, like 
rivers running to the sea, to preserve this government and 
enable us to float this flag we all love so well over the whole 
country, with no spot nor stain to mar its pristine purity. 

The American flag is probably the only flag which has 
never waved over a country going forth to conquest and 
spoliation. Only to aid a weaker nation, or for self-preser- 
vation, has its colors ever been unfurled in battle. 

Henry Ward Beecher has said, in speaking of the flag, 
"It is the Constitution; it is the Nation." Is this not true? 
Is it not the very life, the heart of the nation? Does it not 
represent all that is highest and purest in our government, 
our public institutions, our halls of learning, and state? 

Our flag represents true liberty, not the liberty of the 
red flag, the flag of anarchy — liberty without law — but 
liberty within the law, for without law there can be no 
liberty in a higher sense. A law which guarantees protection 
to the lowliest, and weakest citizens, as well as to the richest, 
and most powerful. 

Tell me, ye freeman, what flag is there in existence to-day 
which promises what the American flag guarantees? What 



Fifty THE COLOR BEARER 

flag ever floated which promised so much? For the future 
we ask no more. 

ODE TO THE FLAG 

Hail, all hail! thou star-crowned banner, hail! 

Fling out thy pinions, let thy colors float 
From shore to shore, o'er mount and wooded vale. 
Wherein is heard the sound of Freedom's note. 

And by thy name 

Ever the same, 

Thy colors true. 

Red, white, and blue. 
For Treason's hated form no more shall throw 
Across the slumbering plain its lurid glow; 
But peace, with dove-white wings, shall hover o'er 
Columbia's homes, content forever more. 

Hail, all hail! thou star-crowned banner, hail! 

Spread forth thy wings, far o'er this vast domain. 
And loyal heart, and voice, shall never fail 
Exultantly to chant, in glad refrain, 

The honors due. 

Dear flag, to you, 

So glorious bright 

To freemen's sight, 
And every heart that beats beneath the sun. 
From youth to age, from gray-haired sire to son. 
Through all the earth, shall bow the willing knee 
In reverence deep, oh! beauteous flag, to thee. 



THE COLOR BEARER Fijty-one 

COLUMBIA 

Long years ago, so many that the tale seems but a dream 
Told in the misty twilight, beside some purpling stream, 
Columbus, that brave mariner, left home and country dear, 
In answer to the summons, which sounded strong and clear 
In the long still watches of the night, or gleam of breaking 
day — 
"Go forth, go forth, oh! pioneer, for coming souls make way. 

"Set thy sails unto the Westward; take thy sturdy, gallant 
crew, 
With Faith to be thy helmsman, and Hope thy anchor true. 
Set sail, set sail, oh! mariner, outride the ocean's foam; 
Stay not the Pinta's mission 'til thou hast found a home 
For wider thought and vision, for larger draughts of truth, 
Where mind can cast its shackles, and gain eternal youth." 

So the Pinta plumed her pinions like an eagle for its flight, 
And through longs days of hardship, through terrors of the 

night, — 
While storms of ocean thundered, like demons in their rage, 
Just loosed from long confinement, within their watery 

cage, — 
She skimmed along, a thing of life, outbreaking every gale, 
Her sullen crew repining, her captain stern, and pale. 

But with purpose never daunted, with will that never tires. 
His course he keeps until he gains the land of his desires. 
Then hail ! all hail ! brave mariner, to the heart that knew 
no fear; 



Fifty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

And hail ! all hail ! to the heritage thou hast bequeathed us 

here: 
A land of sun, and a land of bloom, from ocean to ocean's 

waves ; 
A land of peace, and a land of homes, from the north to the 

coral caves. 

But hail ! thrice hail ! oh ! seaman true, for the freedom thou 

hast given 
Where the rich and poor alike are blest, and the fetters of 

mind are riven. 
And looking down the centuries, as they recede from view. 
We see the hardy pioneer, with purpose strong and true. 
Strike new paths within the forest, to build his humble home 
Where erst before the savage beast alone was wont to roam. 

See the toiling massess pressing upon their Westward way, 
And the glimmer of the ax, as forests grand give way; 
We hear, again in fancy, the red man's awful yell. 
While smoke and flame ascending, their tales of carnage tell. 
See the blood stains in the drifting snow, as the ages past 

we toll, 
Where our fathers fought for freedom, the freedom of the 

soul. 

We see the humble schoolhouse give place to college walls. 
And the little county courthouse to legislative halls 
Where man grapples with the problems of human rights 

to-day, 
As they grappled in the distant past, and will perchance, 

for aye, 



THE COLOR BEARER Fijty-three 

And o'er each broad prairie, each mountain's lofty crest; 
The eagle, bird of freedom, finds eternal rest. 

He hovers o'er the cottage, as the weary toilers come, 
When work is o'er, at set of sun, and hushed the shuttles' 

hum. 
No East, no West, no North, no South, but freedom hovers 

there, 
Each man a king, each woman queen, their children with 

them share 
In the glory of the nation, in the right to carve a name, 
Which will live through coming centuries on the mighty 

scroll of fame. 

And, forever, from the humblest slave the bonds of shame 

are riven — 
He stands to-day a freeman, in the blessed light of Heaven. 



But, hark! For in the distance is an ominous, sullen roar. 
Like the moan of angry waters, ere they surge upon the 

shore. 
Like the growl of old Vesuvius, ere his lava tide is hurled, 
Or the noise of mighty tempests ere they burst upon the 

world. 

'Tis the cry of famished millions, from the noisesome city 

slums, 
Rising high and higher, with their woes, like the angry 

beat of drums. 



Fifty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

Tis the cry of outraged manhood, of woman's wild despair, 
Which will burst, at length, in fury like a lion from his lair, — 
Shall the vanquished in the fight for bread lie scattered o'er 

the plain. 
And the golden car of Juggernaut, roll onward o'er the 

slain? 

Shall the oppressor always triumph, the oppressed be 

always dumb. 
Shall Egypt stay in bondage, no Moses overcome? 
Oh! heed the message, freeman, the warning that is given. 
For night and day it rises to the mighty walls of Heaven. 
Cast thy gauge within the circle, wipe this stain from off 

the land. 
For God, the great Avenger, asks a brother at thy hand. 

Oh! onward, then, and upward, who the future can portray, 
What pen can tell in fitting rhyme the glory of the day 
As nations vie with nations, their tributes to bestow, 
And loyal hearts beneath this dome with gratitude o'er 

flow. 
Dare we cast our humble horoscope, for the blessings still 

to come ? 
For Columbia, land we love so well, the land of Freedom's 

home? 

Yes! We see with our soul's vision down the centuries to be, 
See Columbia marching onward, the Monarch of the Free. 
See Justice hold the balance, and might to right give way. 
And universal brotherhood in every heart hold sway. 



THE COLOR BEARER Fijty-five 

Then hail! thou fair Columbia, proud daughter of the 

dawn, 
Thou sit'st a queen, like ancient Rome, enthroned her hills 

upon. 

Thy vessels lie at anchor in the harbors of the world, 

Thy colors mean protection, where'er they are unfurled. 

Then, freemen, cherish as your lives that banner waving 
there ; 

Let no other float above you, none e'er its glories share; 

Each star that shines so brightly hath storms of war with- 
stood. 

Each stripe within its swaying folds been bathed in patriot 
blood. 



SING AS THE BIRDS SING 

Sing, sing as the birds sing, 

All the glad sunshiny day long; 
Sing, sing as the birds sing 

With a rush and a gush of song. 
Sing of the blue skies over, 

Of the green grass at thy feet ; 
Hush in thy heart each sorrow, 

Let the music be complete. 

Sing, sing as the birds sing 

Of leafy woods and bowers; 
Sing, sing as the birds sing 

Through the long bright summer hours. 



Fifty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

Sing of the sun-lit Heaven 

As though never a cloud o'er cast; 
And the joy in thy throbbing bosom 

Would forever and ever last. 

Sing, sing as the birds sing, 

Let the carol still be gay; 
Sing, sing as the birds sing, 

Make each month as bright as May. 
Sing and thy song will lighten 

Sad hearts with care o'erprest; 
And thus, in blessing others. 

Thy own life will be blest. 

Sing, sing as the birds sing, 

Though thy old friends all forsake; 
Sing, sing as the birds sing, 

And thy songs will new ones make. 
Sing though thy heart be breaking, 

Though thy life seems bleak, and bare; 
Take heart whil'st thou art singing. 

And new days will dawn more fair. 



THE SPECTRAL FLEET 

Twas a Grand-Banks fishing fleet, they say. 
Homeward bound from its weary toil. 

Which dashed on the rocks that August day, 
Where the treacherous waters boil. 



THE COLOR BEARER Fijty-seven 

An hundred boats or more went down 

With their gallant crew, that day, 
Engulfed in the sea, with its angry frown, 

In wild Saint Mary's bay. 

Not one was left of that noble throng 

To bear the tale away; 
And wives and children mourn-ed long 

At false Saint Mary's bay. 

But sailors tell a gruesome tale 

By the fire-log's shimmering glow, 
Which makes the stoutest seaman pale. 

In spite of the beaker's flow. 

How at eve, when the sun has sank to rest, 

And the lights are flickering dim, 
As the last red glow fades out of the West, 

And the moon is a silvery rim. 

A fleet comes in o'er the harbor bar, 

While the gray mists settle round. 
With its flapping sail, and broken spar. 

And fog-horns mournful sound. 

It creeps along through the gathering mist. 

And the sea gives forth no sound 
As the keels plow through its foaming crest, 

And the white spray dashes round. 

No captain calls to his seamen true ; 

No pilot turns the wheel; 
No nets are cast to the waters blue 

As the vespers softly peal. 



Fijty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

So the tale is told, when the day is done, 

By the fire-log's flickering ray. 
And prayers are said, and beads are told, 

For the lost in Saint Mary's bay. 



THE PASSING OF HOPE 

Fair Hope went tripping o'er the flowery plain, 
And sunshine scattered all along her way, 
Each sorrowing soul, basked in her heavenly ray, 
And, smiling, felt life was not lived in vain. 
Then Doubt, and cold Neglect, with jealous eyes, 
Gazed on the votaries at her magic shrine, 
And sought her life, with words and deeds malign. 
Yet Hope rose buoyant toward the bending skies. 
But pale Despair across her pathway came 
And clutched with bony fingers at her heart, 
And breathed upon her with her venomous icy dart ; 
Then Hope lay stricken like a wounded deer. 
Weltering, and gasping, on her funeral bier. 



LOVE'S TRIUMPH 

I said, "I will win fame." And then I wrote. 

Long days and nights, nor took I note 

Of passing time; each shining hour 

Was but a factor, which should win me power. 

I grudged the time which baby lips employed 

To press on mine, the kiss I once enjoyed, — 



THE COLOR BEARER Fifty-nine 

And sought with greedy haste, — and barred the door. 
The room wherein was kept my precious store. 
But fame came not. With sullen face she passed 
Upon the other side, and when I grasped 
Her robe, and prayed that she would stay, 
She turned with scorn on me, and went her way. 

Then said, "I will have gold, though fame is best. 
But, since she will not stay at my behest, 
I choose a lesser good," and straightway fell 
From off the dizzy height I loved so well. 
My talents, prostituted thus to baser end 
Recoiled on me, nor would they lend 
Themselves to use ignoble, so Gold, too, passed me by. 
Nor would she stop with me, for all my sob, and cry. 

And then I wrote for Love, because forsooth I must ; 

Uprose my heart, from out its burial dust 

And sang the livelong day, a song of cheer 

To sorrowing ones : To hearts bowed down with fear. 

My soul put forth new wings, and seemed to grow, 

And soar to greater heights. The days were all too slow. 

The nights too short, wherein to tell the tale 

Of Love. Then Fame and Gold both cried to me, "Allhail! 

Thy purpose good, and noble now we see," 

And smiling turned, and walked along with me. 

LOVE 
When will love die? 
Not till the stars die; 
Not till the heavens fall — 
Love will outlast them all. 



Sixty THE COLOR BEARER 

VICTOR 

To John Greenleaf Whittier 

Call that man great, who, at the close of life, 
Can sit with folded hands and meditate 
O'er time well spent; each duty faithful done; 
Each God-given talent, usury bringing home; 
Desire well harnessed with the mighty will. 
And working with meek pace in honor's shafts. 
Who stands upon the Empyrean heights 
With brow serene, a conqueror of self. 

A DAY DREAM 

Upon the bank, low lying, dreaming dreams, — 
The time is June, and overhead the sky, 

A tender arch of blue, seems bending down 
With kindly face, to kiss me, as I lie. 

The day is perfect ; naught on sea or land 

Denotes the war, which Nature's forces wage 

With man. The apple blossoms white 

Like flags of truce, a time of peace presage. 

Close lapping at the shore, dark waters come — 
But not with angry swish, or sullen roar — 

More like the kiss of timid maiden lips, 

Which ne'er hath tasted such delights before. 

Far up I see the robin's tiny house, 
Aswing upon the gently swaying bough. 

Near to his mate, the father bird sings low 
As if renewing love's first tender vow. 



THE COLOR BEARER Sixty-one 

Oh! unto mortals, never was it given 

Such bliss as feathered songsters know, I ween. 

And o'er me comes a longing as I see 

That little nest upon the bough of green. 

My spirit yearns to burst its prison bars, 
As o'er me gently steals the day's repose. 

And, lying there, my mind is filled with dreams. 
Dreams, which I feel my weakness to disclose. 

But I was living in another world — 

Or, rather this, with vice and sin left out ; 

No trail of serpent any where was seen, 
Nor felt the bitter agony of doubt. 

Hot tears of sorrow never more would flow, 
No more the hungry plead in vain for bread ; 

No wan-eyed children homeless roam alone. 
No mother weep in anguish o'er her dead. 

Stern Justice held the balance, firm, and true. 
While Mercy sat enthroned in purple state. 

And Ignorance and Vice, twin brothers, slunk 
From sight, with Folly, their own chosen mate. 

And then I woke. The sun had sank to rest 
Behind a threatening sky. The robin's song 

Was hushed. A chill o'erhung the evening air, — 
Again the world was ruled by giant Wrong. 



Sixty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

DEATH'S TRIUMPH 

Long days and nights I watched, and o'er the silent room 

There ever hung a solemn, weird, bat-like gloom. 

And in the corners, silent, wavering shadows crept, 

Which, through the lonesome hours, with me a vigil kept; 

And, ever by my side, as to and fro I paced, 

In agony of spirit, as I daily traced 

The ravage which disease and pain were leaving there 

Upon that tiny face, to me so passing fair, — 

A form walked stealthily, like lioness at bay, 

Or like the sleuth-hound, scenting near his certain prey. 

And when I strove, with tender, loving hand, to press 

In mine those waxen fingers, in a mute caress, 

Another hand, with long, and bony fingers grasped 

From me, that baby palm, which I so warmly clasped. 

And when on quivering lips my own I pressed to draw 

The fever leaping through that tiny frame, I saw 

That other form bend low, and touch with icy breath, — 

And then, I knew — that ghastly, grinning form was — Death. 



STILLBORN 

The Author: 
*I will write great truths, with a trenchant pen. 
Which will strike deep down, in the hearts of men. 
And superstition, and bigotry. 
Before the light of my torch shall flee." 



THE COLOR BEARER Sixty-three 

The Artist: 
"I," said the artist, "will limn a theme 
For earth's weary ones, like a heavenly dream. 
Brighter and better the world will be, 
Because of the beauties transcribed by me." 

The Singer: 
"And I," said the singer, "will sing a song 
Which shall echo the breadth of the world along. 
Sweeter than any my song will be, 
And roll to the shores of eternity." 

* * * * * 

The singer's song unheeded rang. 

Too sad, and wierd the notes he sang. 

The writer's name is never seen, 

While the artist's grave has long been green. 



TO THE MOCKING BIRD 

Oh! happy bird, thy music floats 

Across the scented air. My anguished heart 
Is pierced with thy dulcet notes; 

Renewed is all the olden smart 
Of Love's fierce death, for thou dost sing 

Of happy homes, and nestlings dear 
Embowered in leafy wood. Dost wing 

At night thy rapid flight, nor fear 
The gathering storm, or tempest's roar. 

To where warm hearts in sheltered nest 
With Love's sweet welcome, o'er and o'er 

Their tales repeat. Thy troubled breast 



Sixty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

Finds sweet release from racking pain. 

The day's fierce battle's lost to sight 
In thy bright home where Love dost reign 

A happy king, through blackest night. 
I seek my home when daylight flies 

Across the earth, and gently glides 
Adown the West, and darkness lies 

A mantle o'er the land, and rides 
The moon, a crescent, in the sky 

Faint studded with the gems of night. 

Oh! empty nest! My birdlings fly 

With joy to other hearts more bright. 
No light with gentle radiance gleams 

Across my darkened path. No shout 
Of happy childish voice, which seems 

To bid me welcome home. In doubt 
I ope' the door, and blackness drear 

Envelopes as a shroud. In vain I wait 
With throbbing heart, and sharpened ear 

For sound of footfalls, 'til the hour grows late. 

Oh, empty nest! Oh, nestlings flown! 

I bide the time, the time of rest 
When I shall gather up my own 

Lost brood, and in a quiet nest 
Find sweetest peace. 'Til then I wait: 

God's time will surely come at last 
To give my heart's desire, e'en late 

Though it may be, though time be past. 
Then birdlings cease. Thy tuneful notes 

Will rend my quivering heart in twain. 



THE COLOR BEARER Sixty-five 

To other, happier hearts, whose hopes 

Beat high, go sing thy merry strain. 
Leave me in peace. No song can bring 

A consolation which can fill 
This aching void. No note can still 

This throbbing heart. So cease to sing. 

MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED 

I leave the city's din and strife 
Its whirring noises, its jarring life, 
And seek, when toilsome work is done, 
My peaceful home, at set of sun. 
My wife's sad face comes into view, 
But no dear boy, with eyes of blue. 
Welcomes me home with shouts of joy — 
Oh where is he, my baby boy ? 
My little boy that died. 

I close my eyes, and Fancy seems 
To bring again the olden dreams. 
Once more I feel his arms enfold 
My tired neck, his kisses fall 
On brow, and hungry lips, and all 
The past comes back, so bright with joy — 
Oh! where is he, my loving boy? 
My little boy that died. 

Oh! where is he? Faith answers back 
To loose the tension of the rack : 
"The dear Christ folds him to His breast. 
Secure from every ill to rest." 



Sixty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

And, looking towards the heights, I see 
My angel boy keeps beckoning me, 
And then I cry. Oh! Heaven ahoy! 
I come to meet my darling boy. 
My little boy that died. 



THE FAIRY'S SLIPPERS 

'Come, Sister Maudie, let's run away 
Out in the woods, and have a good play; 
For Papa is cross, and Mamma is sour. 
And we won't come back for more'n an hour. 

'Won't it be fun, when they come to tea 
And look all around for you, and me. 
Into the parlor, and out in the hall, 
And they run every where and loudly call? 

They'll say, 'Do you s'pose they're out on the lawn? 
Oh! where can those terrible children be gone. 
We'll have to go to the woods and look, 
I'm sure they've fallen into the brook!' " 

So up and away to the woods they fled; 
Like two little fawns they lightly sped. 
They gathered the flowers they loved the best. 
And searched an hour for a robin's nest. 

They thought they never had had such fun 
As they gathered up shells, until the sun 
Sank down with an ominous darkening frown. 
And the wind came up, and the rain came down. 



THE COLOR BEARER Sixty-seven 

"Oh! I wish we never had wun away," 
Little Maudie said, as they ceased their play ; 
But they cuddled down by the "lady slipper" tree 
And soon in the lands of dreams were free. 

"Oh! here they are!" was the joyful cry, 
As their hiding place the searchers spy. 
And Willie said, "I knew you would come," 
As they carried the truants in triumph home. 

That night as Mamma put her in bed, 
With a long drawn sigh, little Maudie said, 
"Oh! Mamma, I'm glad I wun away, 
If the dark, and rain, did stop our play. 

"For when Willie and I was lying still 
By the "slipper" tree, at foot of the hill, 
A great lot of men, and women comed 
All dressed in green, and they hummed, and hummed 

"The sweetest tunes that ever you heard. 
Only just you touldn't understand a word, 
And then they came to the "slipper" tree, 
And in spite of the dark I could plainly see 

"Every one who was dancing so lightly there 
Pick 'lady slippers' — each took a pair 
And put them wight on their little feet. 
And, oh! they looked so pretty and neat. 

"And then the folks with the lanterns come 
And the men and women every one 
Ran away as fast as ever they could, — 
Say, Mamma, do you 'spose they live in the wood?" 



Sixty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

RESURRECTION 

To-night I sat dreamily thinking 

Of my first fair love, that died ; 
And I smiled, a smile of derision 

As I thought how, at first, I cried 
O'er the pale cold corpse of my darling, 

Enshrouded in garments of gloom. 
And looking so silent, and helpless. 

As I laid it away in the tomb, — 
I rolled a stone o'er the doorway 

And said, in my youthful pride, 
"You shall never come back to haunt me 

Nor walk again by my side; 
Nor even your memory ruffle 

The calm of my future life. 
For love at best is a burden. 

An abettor of folly, and strife." 
But, to night, as I raked Memory's ashes, 

They suddenly glowed a bright red, 
A something arose to confront me, — 

Oh! God, 'twas the form of the dead. 

THE KILDEER'S SONG 

I come from afar, and my mate I bring; 
We build our nests as we gayly sing 
Of opening buds, and the springing flowers, 
Of waving grass, and spring-time showers. 
For don't you know that Spring is here? 
Kildeer, kildeer, kildeer. 



THE COLOR BEARER Sixty-nine 

Oh! Spring is the time for birds to mate, 
And whether the season be early or late, 
Whether grass be green, or buds unfold, 
We're snugly ensconced from storm and cold ; 
And sing with a will that Spring is here — 
Kildeer, kildeer, kildeer. 

The boys and girls, as they idly pass 
Our snug little nest in the waving grass. 
Disturb us not, for they like to hear 
The gay, sweet song of the little kildeer 
As he sings with a will, that Spring is here. 
Kildeer, kildeer, kildeer. 

This bright, warm weather a lesson brings 
To the little kildeer, as he gayly sings 
That though the winter be bleak and cold. 
And the white drifts cover mere and wold, 
Spring comes at last and brings good cheer, — 
Kildeer, kildeer, kildeer. 



THE DEATH RIDE 

"A BALLAD OF THE CoNNEMAUGH." 

All peaceful and quiet the bright town was lying 
In its valley beneath the rough craggy hills. 

And the scurrying clouds o'er the dark sky were flying, 
While the music was heard from a hundred low rills. 



Seventy THE COLOR BEARER 

No thought of the doom that was hovering o'er them — 
No thought of the homes to be carried away — 

No thought of the terrible death now before them 
Had entered the hearts of the people that day. 

Til down through the beautiful valley, came riding 
A youth, worn and weary, with foam on his steed — 

"Up! up and away!" was his cry, never biding 
For storm, nor the flood, in this terrible need. 

"Up! up and away! The waters come pouring — 
The floods are broke loose — no mortal can save ! 
Fly, fly to the hills. Oh, God! hear the roaring 

Which shall make of the dear Connemaugh but a grave." 

On, on through the valley, no thought of his danger, 
Went the rider that day when the waters came down. 

All coatless, and hatless, to each one a stranger, 
Carrying a warning to all that doomed town. 

"Fly! fly to the hills!" and the hills took the story 
And sent it fast flying in thunder along, 
Till the vale seemed the scene of battle-field gory, 
And the echoes resounded like demon's wild song. 

Some listened with sneers, some with fear in their faces. 
While white trembling lips told the woe that oppressed; 

Great, great was the tumult, wild, wild were the races, 
For death and destruction stay not at behest. 

On, on, went the rider, his dark hair outstreaming. 

Through the "Valley of Death," fast and faster he rode; 

But close, and still closer, its hoarse waters screaming, 
Came the death-killing wave from its mountain abode. 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventy-one 

"Oh! faster, fly faster, brave youth with thy story. 

Let thy spurs drink the blood of thy fast lagging steed ! 
For the waters behind thee come loud, hoarse, and hoary, 
And the lives of the people depend on thy speed. 

"Oh! faster, yes, faster; stay not for the roaring 
Of the fierce hungry waves which lick at thy feet ! 
See the dark cloud of death like black vulture soaring, 
Then stay not for danger, Aye! laugh at defeat." 

But late, ah! too late, the waters are closing 

Above that brave youth and his foam-bedecked steed ! 

Like high mighty walls they press on, scarce disclosing 
The site of the city licked up by their greed. 

The years will creep on, and in song and in story 
The fame of this brave, valiant youth will be told ; 

Twill be sung to the children by grand-sires grown hoary, — 
You ask me his name? In Heaven 'tis enrolled. 



DOLLY AND I 

Dolly and I went down to the fair 

In the hazy Autumn weather. 
A bonnie blue ribbon she wore in her hair ; 

In her hat, a scarlet feather. 

She sang of the "Love that is always true." 

I whistled in lively measure, 
As we thought of the vows which were still so new, 

And the coming day of pleasure. 



Seventy-two THE COLOR BEARER 

No cloud could we see in our life's bright sky, 

No demon of doubt assailed us; 
As we went to the fair, did Dolly and 1 . 

But, ah! stern Fate derailed us. 

For another fellow took Dolly home 

In the hazy evening weather. 
And no one but God will ever know 

How I missed that scarlet feather! 



THE SIREN OF THE STAKED PLAINS 

(Suggested on seeing "Legend of The Desert," a painting by F. 
Mell Du Mond, on exhibition at the Columbian Exposition.) 

"Come, come, come! 
Out from the desert I cry to thee. 
Soul of my soul, oh! come to me! 
Lonely I've wandered these desolate sands, 
Waiting thy presence from far distant lands, 
Lonely my vigils through wearisome years, 
Waiting and hoping thy coming with tears, 
Longing, with longing unutterably deep 
For the tones of thy voice, the sound of thy feet ; 
The touch of thy hand on my fever-scarred brow, — 
Soul of my soul, oh! come to me now. 

Come, come, come! 

"Come, come, come! 
Out from the desert, I cry to thee. 
Soul of my soul, oh! come to me! 
Follow me out o'er this burning sand. 
Follow me over this wearisome land; 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventy-three 

Music so sweet shall gladden thy ear 
Like the voice of the pink tinted shell, soft, and clear; 
Like the tones of the far distant bell as it rings 
Out the sweet vesper hymn, or the beat of the wings 
Of the paradise bird, as he flees to his home 
At call of his mate, no longer to roam. 
Come, come, come." 

"Come, come, come! 
Out from the desert I cry to thee. 
Soul of my soul, oh! come to me! 
I'll give thee to drink of the cactus sweet wine. 
On the lizard's warm flesh, each day shalt thou dine. 
Thy bed shall be made where the serpent hath lain, 
Thy pillow the gray bleaching skulls of the plain; 
The tarantula's warm arms shall over thee creep, 
While the black bat of night keeps guard o'er thy sleep. 
Out from the desert I cry to thee. 
Soul of my soul, oh! come to me! 

Come, come, come!" 

The sentinel starts from his restless sleep. 
While a shadow creeps o'er him like mist from the deep, 
Palsied his hand, and palsied his brain. 
As he lists to that sweet plaintive note from the plain. 
His sabre unheeded falls low on the ground. 
Unnoticed is all, save that mystical sound; 
O'er his numbed senses, the dark shadows fall, 
Blindly he follows the siren's low call. 
"Out to the desert I fly to thee, 
Soul of my soul, I fly to thee! 

I come, I come, I come!" 



Seventy-jour THE COLOR BEARER 

"THEY ALSO SERVE" 

"Gray days," the poet sings, in mournful rhyme, 

Scarce caring, doubtless, who that rhyme should see ; 
Or, that it would along the shore of Time, 

Be floated down until it came to me; 
And, settled in my heart, arousing there 

The Past, with all its agony of doubt. 
Its dumb entreaty and its silent prayer. 

No other days save gray, e'er compassed me about. 

The dark and beetling clouds still float along, 

Which hide the sunshine, as in days of old. 
And dull gray mists, e'en yet are settling down, 

Across the horizon, gloomy, chill, and cold. 
Blinded the light which God said should be shed 

Around the pathway of the poorest child. 
The blinding snows still drift athwart my path. 

And make the way a trackless, barren wild; 
Dull skies, gray mists, as far as eye can see, 

Yet back I cannot turn, for troubles roll 
Like vast, and ever-towering mountains bare. 

Which blanch my cheeks and fright my restless soul. 

I only can stand still and raise my eyes. 

Despite of blinding tears and wintry spray, 
To where I see through gray and dismal skies. 

The hand which beckons to the heavenly way. 
I wait content, the time to enter in, 

To that bright land beyond the golden gate; 
For well I know, the Blessed Father sees — 

"They also serve, who only stand and wait." 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventy-five 

APRIL 

All day the dismal wind has swept along, 
From out its icy fastness in the North; 

All day the lark has hushed her merry song, 
Nor e'en the blackbird dared to venture forth. 

The swaying trees no more their buds unfold 
To meet the North wind's damp and chilly kiss; 

To bloom to-day no flower would be so bold, 
So we the gentle daisy's face shall miss. 

To-morrow morn the sunshine will return, 
And gentle zephyrs play along the vale; 

On every bough and twig the happy birds 
Will sing to nesting mates their merry tale. 

The daisy blooms more sweetly for the cloud 
Which hid its sunny face from earth awhile, 

And greet the weary traveler passing by 
With upturned face, a heaven in its smile. 

And we from this a lesson well may learn. 

When sorrow's clouds the fainting soul enshroud, 

To look beyond the gloomy present time. 
And see the Father's face behind the cloud. 

For merry birds of hope will sing for us 

To-morrow morn as gayly as before ; 
And flowers of love, their tender buds unfold, 

With hues as bright as in the days of yore. 



Seventy-six THE COLOR BEARER 

I WOULD NOT CARE FOR HEAVEN 

They tell of a wondrous city, 

A place divinely fair, 
But I would not care for its glories 

Did I not meet you there. 
I would not care for its music, 

Its choirs, with harps of gold, 
Unless 'mong the heavenly singers 

Your face I could behold. 

The heavenly waters flowing, 

O'er shining sands of gold, 
Would be bitter to my palate, 

Unless your hands could hold 
To my lips the silver chalice, 

And you could drink with me 
Of the wondrous fountain flowing 

From out of the Jasper sea. 

And that house of many mansions, 

So beautiful to view, 
Would be to me a prison cage 

Unless 'twere shared with you. 
Some day its doors will be open 

And we will go sailing through; 
Ah! that will be heaven enough 

To be once again with you. 

To feel your kiss on my forehead, 
The clasp of your hand in mine. 

Will thrill through my throbbing pulses 
With a joy that is divine. 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventy-seven 

That day our hearts will be open 

To be read as a printed book, 
How strange that it will be so 

When we grudged each other a look. 

Oh ! then we will know the reason 

Our hands were severed apart, 
When not even Death could sunder 

The love of each heart, for heart. 
Oh! how I long for the coming 

Of that wonderful day of bliss ; 
To feel my sad heart glowing, 

With the joy of your passionate kiss. 

So long on this earth I've wandered 

Alone in my wild despair. 
That I would not care for Heaven 

Could I not meet you there. 



EXTRACTS FROM "PHILIP'S QUEST" 

Fast falls the setting sun ; its lurid beams 

Light up the valley with their baleful light. 

Yon mountain's frost-crowned, eerie summit gleams 

A point of fire, across the darkening night; 

The river wends its sinuous length along, 

Between low banks of overhanging trees, 

And murmurs o'er its treacherous sands a song 

Of death, and ruin, to the Autumn breeze. 



Seventy-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

The breeze takes up the canny song and wails 

In plaintive notes unto the stunted pines, 

Or whistles sharp a ghostly note, which pales 

The cheek of him, who knows the storm's sure signs ; 

Low banks of clouds the Southern sky o'erspread. 

Like prophecy of death, o'erhanging there, 

Athwart their ebon-black, a coppery red. 

Is borrowed from the lightning's baleful glare. 

Swift bounding o'er the plain, the frightened hare 
Lifts high his head, his listening ears erect. 
And darts away, o'er barren vale, to where 
The stunted plum the sloping hills protect. 
Far off large herds of lowing bison stand, 
With nose in air, as if they seek to find 
The cause of tumult o'er the quivering land, 
The meaning of the ominous, sighing wind. 

Still high and higher, the winds in fury rise, — 

Tall sapplings groan, and creak and bite the ground — 

While clouds of sand shut off the angry skies, 

And whirl and swirl in eddying gusts around, 

Adown the valley, lo! young Philip flies. 

His staff in hand, his mantle wide outspread, 

To reach a rude adobe hut which lies 

A safe retreat from bellowing storms o'er head. 

The hurricane's fierce roar his heart benumbs. 
With listless spring, he leaps within the door; 
Then, to the horrors of the night succumbs. 
He hears no more the lashing demon's roar, 



THE COLOR BEARER Seventy-nine 

No more he hears the thunder's awful crash, 

Nor sees the cruel fork'd lightning play, 

Athwart the heavens, with threatening sulphurous flash, 

For now, to him, is neither night nor day. 

Too weak to face the cyclone's awful wrath, 
He lies unconscious of the ruin spread 
Adown the valley in the storm's wild path. 
Nor heeds the fierce artillery o'er head. 
The storm rolls on, its fury spent at last, 
The morning sun looks down with kindly eye, 
But man looks on with timid soul aghast, 
At sight of Nature's wondrous mystery; — 

All of life's mysteries, who shall ever know? 
The wind where'er it listeth still doth blow, 
The tides still ebb, and flow, and puny man 
Has sought in vain their certain source to scan; 
And while he tracks the stars, and tells their name, 
The comet's flight, the lurid lightning's flame. 
The moon's pale glow, and when its sombre face 
Shall hide the sun, and day to night give place. 
With all his knowledge, yet he doth not know. 
Just why the young and tender grasses grow. 



IN THE EVERLASTING ARMS 

To-night my little boy came running up to me 

With tear-stained face, and blue eyes sad with pain; 

And climbing on my not unwilling knee. 

He cried, "Oh! Papa, take me in your loving arms again." 



Eighty THE COLOR BEARER 

And then content the blue-veined lids closed down 
Above his tired eyes; and o'er his tear-stained face 

A deep peace settled, and till the sun with angry frown 
Sank in the West, he kept his old accustomed place. 

And rocking him within the twilight's purple glow, 
A tender longing took possession of my being, quite. 

My soul put forth new wings, and seemed to grow 

To greater heights, and all earth's sordid aims were put 
to flight. 

And then I cried, "Oh! Father, all the long and weary way 
My feet have stumbled, and I see no beacon light 

To tell me of the long expected day ; 

Dear Father, take me in Thy everlasting arms to-night." 



HOPE 

May we not hope that in some brighter world 

The broken chords of this, 
May there by angel hands be gathered up. 

And turned to endless bliss. 



COURAGE 

Should foes assail, and friends betray, 
Let them not bar thy onward way ; 
But fix thy soul on higher things 
And mount, as if on angel wings. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eighty-one 

FAITH 

And though the web of life is dim, I know 
If I my shuttle ply with proper zeal 
Following His known will, He will reveal 
Enough, so that I shall not spoil 
The web I'm weaving — thus in faith I toil. 



WHY DO BELLS RING? 

(For Recitation) 

First Voice: 

Why are the days so sweet and bright, 
Why filled with rapture and delight? 
Why do the bells at Christmas ring, 
And children heavenly carols sing? 

Second Voice: 

One night in Bethlehem, long ago, 

A star shone forth with steady glow; 

And from their homes three Wise Men came 

To worship at its holy flame. 

For underneath that star so bright. 

In lonely manger, far from sight 

Of prince or pauper, He was born 

We worship on this Christmas morn. 

First Voice: 

And who was He? What did He do, 
That all the world should worship so? 



Eighty-two THE COLOR BEARER 

Second Voice: 

He was the Prince of Peace and Light, 
God's only Son was born that night. 
He took the children to His breast; 
With holy words each dear one blessed, 
And on the cross His life He gave 
From sin's defiling curse to save. 

First Voice: 

Why does Old Santa leave his home 
And o'er the world with reindeers roam, 
To give to children far and near, 
Rich Christmas gifts their hearts to cheer? 

Second Voice: 

Christ left a mission to fulfill 
For all who love to do His will. 
So Santa comes in His dear stead 
To bring bright toys, and blessings shed. 
That no dear heart shall sorrow know 
Or want, or suffering here below. 
That's why the bells at Christmas ring. 
And children heavenly carols sing. 



HANG UP THE CHILDREN'S STOCKINGS 

Hang up the children's stockings. 
By the fireside snug, and warm. 

For Santa Glaus is coming, 
In spite of wintry storm. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eighty-three 

With his merry sleighbells jingling, 

His reindeers sleek and white, 
On the roof and down the chimney 

He is coming here, to-night. 

Hang up the children's stockings — 

The large ones and the small ; 
Do not mind about the number, 

He will surely fill them all. 
With whips and dolls and rattles, 

With books, and candy toys. 
And something very, very nice. 

He'll give good girls, and boys. 

Hang up the children's stockings; 

May each little child be glad ; 
On this blessed, blessed evening 

Let no tender heart be sad. 
Go out through lanes and byways, 

Go through each city street, 
And gather in the children 

Whom every where you meet. 

Little homeless, orphan children, 

Shivering in the biting cold. 
From the slums, and from the highways 

Take them in the warm home-fold. 
Yes, gather in the children. 

On this pleasant Christmas night, 
And tell the "Old, Old Story," 

By the hearthstone, warm and bright. 



Eighty-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

Tell them of the little Christ Child 

Who was born so long ago, 
Far away across the Jordan, 

In a manger, poor and low; 
How He died to break the fetters 

Which sin had forged so tight, — 
Then hang up the children's stockings 

On this holy, Christmas night. 



LIFE'S RIVER 

The white sails gleam in the silvery light 

Of a day just dying into the night ; / 

And the low hulls plough through the waters white. 

As the ships sail down the river, — 

Life's mystical, haunted river. 

White forms people the ghostly decks; 

From distance they seem like shadowy specks. 

As they float along o'er the mangled wrecks, 

Which lie deep down in the river — 

The faithless, stygian river. 

Still ever and ever they float along, 

To the murmuring sea, this spectre throng. 

And ever they chant the same wild song 

Of the cruel, cruel river — 

Life's hard and cruel river. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eighty-five 

The glimmering forms on the farther shore 
Seem wailing a cry of the never more, 
In tune to each silent dip of the oar, 

On this sinuous, sobbing river — 

This turbulent, maddening river. 

If some go down with their sails spread fair 
To catch each pulse of the throbbing air, 
We float uncaring, o'er places where 

Their barks sank deep in the river — 

The restless, treacherous river. 

Forever it flows with ceaseless tone. 
Beckoning us onward with ghostly moan; 
And we sail along to the dim unknown 

On this murmuring solemn river — 

This wonderful solemn river. 

Friends heave in sight as we swiftly go; 
We pause not to ask, and never know 
Whether they catch the ebb or the flow 

Of this gruesome, lonesome river — 

This wierdly lonesome river. 

Never a thought give we to the crew. 
Never a thought be they many or few; 
Never a thought, that there's aught to do 

As we float down this Lethean river — 

This sombre, Lethean river. 



Eighty-six THE COLOR BEARER 

Yet there is One who watches the throng 
As it rushes so blindly and madly along, 
And notes each action of right and wrong 

As it sails down the rushing river — 

Life's fitful, feverish river. 

And the "Port of Peace" lies just in view 

For those whose pilots keep ever true, 

And they'll anchor at last in the heavenly blue 

Of God's eternal river — 

Heaven's peaceful, restful river. 



THEMIS 

( Answer to Dr. O. W. Holmes' Tartarus ) 

Your creed holds true. That God is love 
The tiniest blade of grass will prove; 
The flowers which bloom, the stars that shine 
Tell with mute voice His love divine. 

But can we claim that love for man 
Who stubbornly denies the plan 
Which He has given? The stars shine still, 
In strict obedience to His will. 

The flower's sweet face is lifted up 
In reverence deep. Its tiny cup 
Receives the dew which He has given, 
Like manna sent of old from Heaven. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eighty-seven 

Can he who sits with angry frown, 
And coldly grinds the toiler down, 
Seek with that creed his life to prove. 
And, answering, say that "God is love?" 

Or he, who robs of virtue's dower 
The pleading victim in his power. 
Look up to Heaven with face serene 
And plead "God's love" to hide the scene? 

Nay, nay! not so. God's love is just, 
And vain will be their cry who trust 
That love to cover up a life 
With sin, and base oppression rife. 

Aye, foolish man, since God is love, 
He must our mortal natures prove; 
But he condemns no erring soul, 
'Tis man, himself, who makes his goal. 

"Choose ye this day whom ye will serve," 
Comes from Above. Nor will He swerve 
One jot or tittle from the plan 
Laid down to save a fallen man. 

Think not, with philosophic creed 
To change God's laws, but plainly read 
The message sent from Sinai high — 
"The soul that sinneth, it shall die." 

But we can hear His pleading voice, 
"Come unto me, oh! soul rejoice! 
My Father's house has rooms to spare, 
And ye who will, may enter there." 



Eighty-eight THE COLOR BEARER 

*A PSALM OF FAILURE 

Father, I come to Thee, not as the victor comes 
With banners flying, with the beat of drums, 
And bearing in my hands rich trophies won 
Beneath a Northern sky, or tropic sun, 
My color's trail, their glory dimmed with tears 
I shed when vanquished in the vanished years. 

No spoils have I, only these gaping wounds, 
Attest the conflict with War's yelping hounds; ' 
And though I sowed upon the fruitful plain. 
Through storm, and shine, the fertile, yellow grain, 
No sheaves have I ; to others it was given 
To garner that for which I long had striven. 

My hands are empty, though I toiled through lands 
Near and remote. O'er burning desert sands, 
Early and late, with aching, bleeding feet. 
Searching for spoils, alone I traveled fleet, 
Or chilled, and faint, by glacier's icy breath, 
I worked with stubborn zeal that courted death. 

And oh! my Father, I have cried to Thee 
In anguish wild, far off Thou seemed'st to me 
Unpitying, and unkind, I smote my breast 
For nowhere could my anguished soul find rest. 
But yet, oh! Father as Life's evening sun 
Sinks slowly down, with all my work undone, 

*This poem was read by Dr. J. H. Cockerell at the funeral of Mrs. 
Susan Dale Beckwith, June 8, 1914, Great praise was merited by 
Doctor Cockerell for the beautiful setting which he gave for this poem, 
and the able and touching manner in which he read it. — Mrs.Beitel. 



THE COLOR BEARER Eighty-nine 

My life a failure, all my hopes laid low, 
I turn in faith to Thee; for, Lord, I know 
I am Thy child, and all the weary way, 
Hast Thou been with me, and a heavenly ray 
Shines in my heart, and so content I rest 
Within Thy arms, my head upon Thy breast. 



NIGHT 

Night, hated night! Thou foldest, like a pall 
Of death, thy darksome, bat-like wings o'er all 
The bright and smiling earth, and, like a grave 
Thou closest up the warm Sunlight which gave 
The world its beauty, and to life its joy. 
Thou playest with sweet nature as a toy. 
The modest floweret, which through sunny May, 
Followed with patience, the warm "God of Day" 
On his swift rounds, from Orient to the West, 
With eyes of blue; closes at thy behest. 

The tall and stately trees, with foliage bright, 

Rear their proud forms toward the mountain's height 

And cast a cool, and ever welcome shade 

For weary toilers in the flowery glade ; 

And their wide branches, lovingly entwine 

To shelter from the hot noon sun, the panting kine. 

They, at thy dusky bidding, ghost-like spread 

Their weird arms o'er the affrighted head. 

Of those belated travelers who essay 

Their home to reach, by the short wooded way. 



Ninety THE COLOR BEARER 

Vices which shun the noon-day sun's broad glare, 
And while 'tis light keep close their hidden lair, 
As thy dark shades steal on, then they parade 
In all the loathsomeness of infamy arrayed, 
With their foul touch as with a simoom's breath 
They blast to bitter ruin and to death, 
Creatures who in the glowing light of day, 
(Not yet being lost, to every tender ray 
Of Memory's teaching of the by-gone time 
When at their mother's knee, with prayer, and rhyme, 
They learned of better ways than these they live, 
And of a Father ready to forgive), 
Press closer to their forms their tinseled dress, 
And shrink away to wait thy dark caress. 
Only too well they know thy friendly face 
Smiles down on deeds of ruin and disgrace. 

As night creeps on, Disease and Death stalk out 
To still the groans of age and youthful shout. 
The weary sufferer, who all night hath lain 
On his hard couch, with fever-racking pain, 
And fancies in his sombre shadowed room 
Which seems so full of haunting, doleful gloom; 
That faces of the by-gone years flit round, 
With fiendish leer. And every fitful sound. 
Of the nurse's slippered feet, as to and fro, 
She tip-toes round the sufferer breathing low, 
And listens with her bated breath, and warm — 
For life yet lingering in the wasted form — 
Seems like the presage of some coming dread 
Or stealthy shade among the silent dead. 



THE COLOR BEARER Ninety-one 

When morning comes and through the curtained room 
The Eastern sun shines, scattering far the gloom 
Which lurked in every darkened corner there, 
Then rises silently his fervid morning prayer 
To Him who bade the dusky night subside, 
And o'er the earth the gladsome sunlight glide. 



The lovers who through daylight's lengthening shade 

Have wandered, hand in hand, the flowery glade. 

And whispered o'er and o'er the olden tale 

Which never will be old till stars shall pale; 

In the great glory of the blessed morn. 

When o'er the world Eternity shall dawn, 

As thy black wings o'erspread the earth around, 

And hushed and silent grows each day-light sound : 

When from the shallow lake the frog's hoarse note 

Across the sombre silence seems to float. 

When every rustling bough or snapping twig 

Or waving grass seems with portention big, 

Of what their doubting hearts can scarce divine, — 

Distrust, and doubt, are born at eventime. 

When from the skies the stars peep gently down. 

And Luna's light is greeted with a frown, 

Then comes the time two loving souls must part 

To go their separate ways with aching heart. 

Together they a perfect unit are, 

Divided, but a fraction full of care. 



The widowed one, who scarce the day abides, 
And with sore heart, her orphan children chides 



Ninety-two THE COLOR BEARER 

For lightly speaking of the vacant chair 
And absent father who was seated there 
In those dear days, around the heartstone bright, 
When pattering feet came for a fond good-night, 
Now seeks in tears her lonely couch of gloom 
Within the chill and silent shadowed room; 
And through the hours of sleepless agony 
Which glide so slowly round till from its sea 
Of glories in the East, the sun doth rise 
To greet and glad her weeping fevered eyes, 
Fancies that on the vacant pillow there 
She yet can see blue eyes and golden hair. 

In momentary sleep she yet doth rest 
Her tired head upon his faithful breast; 
Her shelter always when the cares of life 
Pressed on her weary heart, and bitter strife 
Her path assailed. In sickness, doubt, or pain, 
She ne'er with wifely love can go again 
To that dear one, so tender and so true. 
Whose love distilled around like morning dew. 

"A lonely, empty couch, a vacant chair 
A lowly mound within the Churchyard there," 
She cries in agony of grief and fear, 

"Is all that's left to speak of him so dear." 
And o'er and o'er she repeats the mournful tale 
As doth at midnight chant the nightingale. 



THE COLOR BEARER Ninety-three 

Oh, distant shining Stars! who ever prove 

True to Creator's plan, and never move 

From thy known orbit, through the endless time 

Of never-ending cycles. It is thine. 

To teach the mysteries of the life beyond 

To us poor groveling worms. Teach us the bond 

Which links the mortal to the immortal man; 

Show us by light divine, the wondrous plan 

By which this earthly dress, so poor and worn 

By vice and sin, of all its beauty shorn, — 

Drops off, and we be clothed in purity. 

The stars shine on, no answer can we see 

In their bright depths, with cold and lambent light 

They move majestic through the trackless night, 

And yet we know there is another shore 

Where no night comes, and darkness never more 

Will settle down, and o'er that vast domain 

No separation comes; nor doubt, nor pain, 

But those sad souls, who've loved and lost on this. 

Shall wander on, in an eternal bliss. 

The doors of Morning shall be thrust aside 
And o'er that country vast the sunlight glide, 
Of God's eternal peace, we then shall know 
The cause of all the darkness and the woe, 
Which has engulfed us here. The doubts and pains; 
The never-ending grief; the sin which reigns 
With undisputed sway ; the majesty of might 
Which crushes with its iron heel the right; 



Ninety-Jour THE COLOR BEARER 

Why selfish lust of gold, and base desire 
Sweep o'er the heart, consuming with their fire 
Man's better nature, leaving in its stead 
A loathsomeness of life — a bitter dread 
Of that to come. Oh, doubting soul ! 
From off thy blinded eyes, thy God shall roll 
The veil which shuts the light of Heaven's dawn 
From thy weak vision. On that blessed morn, 
When from their graves the buried dead shall rise 
And soar triumphant to the vaulted skies, 
Will to our hearts, with grief and anguish riven, 
God's answer come: "No night shall be in Heaven." 



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